Thorne Guy
The Angel

CHAPTER XXIII
CONSOLIDATION

A month had passed by.

For a fortnight after the death of Sir Augustus Kirwan the Press had been full of surmise and conjecture. New theories as to the identity of the murderer were advanced every day. Every now and again some enterprising journal would appear with a column of exclusive news, which pointed to the fact that the criminal was discovered through the acumen of the journal's own private detectives, and was certain to be arrested in two days at least. He never was arrested, and two days afterwards some new sensation drew a red herring across the old trail, while the public read on and were perfectly content, provided that they were thrilled.

It was generally agreed, however, by Press and public alike, that Sir Augustus Kirwan had not been the real object of attack, but that the shot had been aimed at Joseph, the evangelist. This general certainty had marked a definite effect upon the way in which the Teacher was regarded. The hostility of the unthinking mob was disarmed by it. It became known to the great mass of the common people that whatever Joseph might be, whatever impossible doctrines he might preach, his one idea was to alleviate the miseries and sorrows of the poor, not only in a spiritual, but also in a solid, concrete, and material fashion.

Opposition still continued, of course, but the tragedy in the East End had broken it up into separate camps, and there was no longer a steady tide of enmity, such as there had been at the commencement of the evangelist's stupendous mission to London.

On the night of the murder itself an event had occurred which was very far-reaching in its consequences, though at the moment none of those who were present quite realized the significance of what they heard. The Teacher had appeared upon the steps of his house in Bloomsbury, and had addressed the enormous crowd during the early part of the night. This crowd had been attracted to the square by the news published in the evening papers of Sir Augustus' murder and Joseph's escape. They had congregated there out of curiosity, in the first instance; but when Joseph had appeared in a carriage, together with a stranger, there had been a spontaneous outburst of genuine affection from the many-throated multitude.

It was as though every person there, whether he had seen the evangelist before or not, was genuinely glad at his escape, felt that sense of personal brotherhood and love, that ungrudging recognition of a high and noble nature whose aims were purely unselfish, which now and then is vouchsafed to an assembly to feel, and which, in the psychology of crowds, is the very highest manifestation of cumulative feeling.

Then had come a short but enormously powerful and heart-searching address.

There was a note of great sadness in it, so some of the most sensitive members of the crowd imagined, a note heralding a farewell, though, on after reflection, it was supposed that the terrible events of the afternoon had naturally disturbed and unstrung the Teacher in a very great degree.

The peculiar note which the address had struck was that which made it a very special occasion in the history of Joseph's mission to London. It was not only an exhortation to the people there to repent and seek forgiveness at the foot of the Cross, it was not only an exhortation to each member of the crowd to live a holy life and walk in the ways of the Lord – it was all this, but there was something more, and something new.

Joseph had, as if with the certainty of most absolute confidence, bidden every person there from that moment to go out into the world as a definite minister of the Gospel. It was as though addressing a congregation of known and tried disciples, whom he knew would obey his behests and carry out his wishes. So some great captain might have spoken to his officers, delivering them a special mission.

"Go out, my dear brothers, this very night, as ministers of the Word of God, to spread the knowledge of Him in London. Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ, for the remission of sins, and you shall receive the Holy Ghost."

With fiery words he called upon them to deny themselves all things, to break off all associations with evil and worldly things which warred against the soul; to do their work, whatever it might be, to the glory of God, and to spend every moment of their spare time in a definite, individual campaign against the hosts of evil.

The burning eloquence of his words, short as was the time during which he spoke to them, made a deep impression upon many hundreds there. The dark square, with its tall lamp-posts around, and the glow of yellow light which poured from the door of the great house, the deep organ-note of London's traffic all around, the whole strangeness and mystery of the scene, could never be forgotten by any one that witnessed it. And in the result it had actually happened that in that single evening the power of the Teacher's words had keyed up lives that were faltering between good and evil, had sown the seed of righteousness in barren and empty hearts, had sent out a veritable company far and wide over London, who, each in his own way, and with the measure of his powers and capacity, became a minister of Jesus.

"Was it not, indeed, true?" many righteous men and women asked themselves during the ensuing month, when the leaven was working in strange and unexpected directions. "Was it not, indeed, true, that down upon that crowd of Londoners some portion of the Holy Spirit had descended, some sacred fire which, even as the fires of Pentecost themselves, had again repeated the miracle which was prophesied by the prophet Joel?"

All over London, among thinking Christians, there came an added conviction that it was indeed true that one specially guided and gifted of God was among them. A man was in their midst to whom the Holy Spirit was given in abounding and overflowing measure, and who, like Enoch, walked with God. And many lovers of Jesus felt that perhaps now, indeed, the time was come when once more the Almighty Father would pour out His Spirit upon all flesh – the time when their sons and their daughters should prophesy, the young men see visions, and the old men dream dreams.

Was it not true now, as it ever had been, that "whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved?"

And so, during the month which had gone by since the tragedy in Whitechapel, the fame of the Master had grown and grown, until it had become less of the breathless sensation which it had appeared at first, and had settled down into a definite and concrete thing.

It was at this juncture that two articles appeared in two newspapers. One was an article signed "Eric Black" in the Daily Wire, another one written by Hampson, the editor of the Sunday Friend.

The Daily Wire was, of course, the leading popular daily paper of England. The Sunday Friend, under Hampson's editorship, and especially since the advent of the evangelist, had become an enormous power among all definitely Christian people.

The article of Eric Black in the Daily Wire was far less enthusiastic in tone than that written by Hampson, Joseph's old and trusted friend. It was very judicial in manner, and from this very circumstance it gained an additional weight, and had, perhaps, even a greater influence than the other.

Eric Black, the brilliant young journalist, had never faltered in his resolve to follow the banner of Christ since the night when, with his own eyes, he saw the man of God raise up the sufferer from his sick bed. At the same time, Black, far more than Hampson, was a man of the world, a young, brilliant, modern man of the world. He realized that in order to make the Kingdom of Heaven intelligible it was most certainly necessary to understand the kingdom of this world as well. To plant the good seed in the waiting ground one must not only know all about the seed itself, but must be acquainted with the properties of the ground in which it is destined to fructify.

In thoroughly understanding this, the journalist, in his great summing-up article of the work of Joseph the evangelist, had refrained from enthusiastic comment, and had merely stated and made a record of indubitable, incontrovertible fact.

Never before, during the time of the Teacher's ministry, had there been a concise epitome of its events, its progress, and its results.

London, and all England, indeed, was supplied with such a document now, and even the most thoughtless were compelled to pause and wonder what these things might mean.

Every instance of the supernormal happening – Eric Black refused the word supernatural, and substituted for it the wiser and more comprehensive word – was tabulated, set forth in detail, and attested by the affidavits of witnesses whose bona fides could not be doubted.

The enormous charities which had begun to be active under the ægis of the Teacher were explained and discussed, and in one day London was amazed to learn of great fortunes which were being deflected from their old paths and were pouring their benefits to relieve the necessities of the downtrodden and oppressed. Names and sums were given, and the man in the street gasped as he realized the tremendous force of a personality which had already captured millions of money for the work and service of God.

If some of the wealthiest and most celebrated men in England had gladly given up a great part of that which they possessed for the benefit of others, was there not, indeed, something beyond all ordinary explanation in this stupendous fact?

Perhaps, indeed, such occurrences as these impressed the great mass of the public more even than the supernormal occurrences to which Black's famous article bore witness. To the mind of the ordinary self-seeking man there is something far more wonderful in the fact of a man with a hundred pounds giving seventy-five of it away to other people, without hope of earthly reward or wish for earthly praise and recognition, than even the appearance of an angel in the sky heralding the second coming of Our Lord would probably be.

The brain of each single unit of the human race is exactly what he has made it by a long series of habits and thoughts directed to one object. It is not more wonderful that the sot and low-minded man cannot appreciate beautiful music or perfect scenery than it is that the self-centred intellect is unable to accept the evidence for the unseen or realize that this life is but a phantom that will pass away.

Both the article of Eric Black and that written by the editor of the Sunday Friend finally summed up the difference that the arrival of Joseph in the Modern Babylon had made to existing conditions.

The theatres of the bad sort, which pandered to the lower instincts of those who patronized them, were almost empty. Several of them were closed, "for the production of a new play." A strong agitation was going on in Parliament to make it prohibitive for women to be employed in the drinking saloons and bars of London. In vast areas the preachers of the Brotherhood had reduced the gambling evil among the poorer classes to a most appreciable extent.

The working man was being taught by the direct agency of the Holy Spirit, as manifested in Joseph's followers, and by the inexorable law of quiet logic and common-sense, to turn his attention from the things of to-day and the immediate amusement of the moment, to the future of his soul. The greatest work of all was, perhaps, accomplished in this direction, and it was found that once the ordinary intelligence was convinced of the existence of a future state, the ordinary intelligence saw immediately the necessity for preparing for eternity during this short and finite life.

London, day by day, hour by hour almost, was growing more serious. The churches were filling once more, especially and markedly those in which there was a daily celebration of the Eucharist. A great wave of religious feeling was sweeping over the metropolis. And on all sides the cry of the ignorant and the desirous was heard —

"What shall we do to be saved?"

Some two days after the month which had elapsed since the murder of Sir Augustus, Sir Thomas Ducaine sat in his library, talking earnestly to Hampson the journalist.

Ever since the first night when the two strangely opposite natures had met at the Frivolity Theatre the friendship between the millionaire baronet and the humble journalist had grown and strengthened. Then had come Sir Thomas' conversion to the truth, his public confession of Christ, which had welded the bond of friendship between the two men into something that only death itself could end in this world, but to renew it in the next.

Lady Kirwan had retired to the great family country-house in Hertfordshire, a broken and unhappy woman. She had refused to see Joseph or even Sir Thomas Ducaine again, persisting in her attitude of absolute hostility to the Teacher and all his friends. Marjorie Kirwan had become quietly engaged to the Duke of Dover.

Lady Kirwan – and this was the worst of all – had turned against her niece, Mary Lys. The will of Sir Augustus had come as an enormous surprise to the world. No one had realized how wealthy the financier was, and his testamentary dispositions had startled everybody. Trustees were placed in the possession of a million of money, which was to be handed over to his daughter upon her marriage. Lady Kirwan had a life interest in almost an equal sum. When she died this vast property was to go to her niece, Mary Lys, without any conditions whatever. Two hundred thousand pounds had been left to the influential committee of trustees which now administered the great sums of money which had been given or left to Joseph and his brethren.

The position of Mary was, therefore, a very strange one. She had become one of the greatest heiresses in England, she was engaged to Sir Thomas Ducaine, but nothing would induce her aunt to see her or hold any communication with her. At first the poor girl had thought of returning to the hospital in the East End for a time, but another way had been found out of the difficulty.

Lady Susan Wells, an elderly spinster, a daughter of the Earl of Fakenham, and aunt to Sir Thomas Ducaine, had asked Mary to live with her at her house in Belgrave Square. The plan had been adopted, and Mary was still able, owing to this arrangement, to actively assist in Joseph's work, and carry on her life of sweet self-sacrifice and help.

Sir Thomas and Hampson sat on each side of the library fire.

"Joseph ought to be here now," Hampson remarked.

Sir Thomas nodded and said:

"I feel to-night as if something very important were going to happen. Neither of us have seen Joseph for four days now. Nobody, in fact, has seen him, and nobody knows what he has been doing. One of his strange disappearances and withdrawals from the rush of life has taken place again. When that occurs we always know something is going to happen."

"He has been communing with God," Hampson answered gravely, and even as he spoke the butler opened the door, and the tall figure of the Master entered.

Joseph looked very thin and pale. He seemed a man who had but lately come through days of deep suffering.

Sir Thomas rose.

"Ah, my friend," he said, "we were speaking of you at this moment, and wondering what you had to tell us. We got your letter, of course, and we knew that you had some very important thing to say. Come and tell us what it is."

"My brothers," Joseph answered, his face beaming with love and sadness as he looked upon them both, "I come to tell you of the end!"

CHAPTER XXIV
SUPREME MOMENTS

The dawn came.

The sun rose over the still, grey sea, and the first rays which flashed out over the brim of the world shone in through the open window of the little bedroom.

It was a simple cottage room. The walls were whitewashed, the appointments were primitive, and the fresh light of morning fell upon the little truckle-bed in which a young man lay sleeping.

One arm rested behind his head, another was flung carelessly over the counterpane. The sun touched a strong, clean-shaven face, a face clear-cut as a cameo, with resolution in every line, and with a curious happiness lying upon it, even as the sunlight touched it.

Thomas Ducaine was sleeping in the little cottage room of the Welsh village, where he had come for the great day of his life.

As the sun touched the young and noble face, the head moved a little, and the firm mouth parted in a happy smile. As they will in dreams, towards the end of both sleep and dreaming, the events of the last day or two were summing themselves up in the sub-conscious brain, just before consciousness itself was about to return, and the eyes open upon the happy day.

Over the sea the sun rose, the sea-birds winged above the smooth water with shrill, joyous voices, the little ozone-laden breeze eddied upon the fore-shore, and found its way into the room of the sleeping man.

Then, as day began to move and stir, and all the happy world of Wales prepared to greet it, Sir Thomas Ducaine opened his eyes and awoke.

For a moment or two he lay looking round him with eyes which still held part of the deep mystery of sleep, and then at last everything came back to him. He sat up in the bed, the color mounted to his cheeks, and as he turned his face towards the window and saw the brilliant but still sleeping glory of the early-rising sun and quiet sea, he buried his face in his hands and prayed.

For this was the morning of his life, the morning of all mornings; there would never be another morning like this.

A week ago Joseph had come to him in the night. Pale, wan, and wearied, yet still with the inextinguishable fires of the Spirit shining through his eyes, informing all his movements and words, Joseph had come to him with a solemn message.

The Master had told him that, despite all that had happened, although to the world of society and convention he and Mary were still in the depths of mourning, it was necessary that they should put all these material and social considerations on one side, and that their love should be sealed and signed by the blessing of the Church – that the time of the singing of the birds had come, that wedlock awaited them.

And so, without further questioning, Thomas and Mary obeyed the voice of the man who had had so stupendous an influence upon their lives, and gave the direction of their actions into his keeping. Both of them were certain that what their beloved Teacher ordained for them was just and right. Nay, more than that, they knew that the words of Joseph, which ordered their doings, were more than the words of a mere man; that, as always, the Holy Spirit informed them.

The sun poured into the humble room, filling it with amber light and the fresh breeze of the dawn.

Thomas Ducaine leapt from his bed, and went to the low window. Leaning his arms upon the sill, he breathed in the gracious, welcoming air, and looked out over the ocean to the far horizon, with eyes that were dim with happy gratitude and gracious tears.

Yes, this, indeed, was the day of days. The morning of all mornings had come!

Leaning out of the window, he saw the curve of little whitewashed houses which fringed the bay. The fishers' boats rocked at anchor beyond the granite mole, and far at the end of the village his eyes fell upon another whitewashed cottage. As he saw it once more, he placed his hands before his face and sent up a deep and fervent petition to the Almighty that he might indeed be worthy of the precious and saintly maiden whom he knew was sleeping there in her sweet innocence.

This was the morning of mornings!

When the sun had risen higher in the heavens, he would walk to the little granite-walled, slate-roofed church. Mary would meet him there, and Joseph and the brethren who had accompanied the Teacher from London back to their old beloved home. And there, without pomp or ceremony, noise of publicity, or the rout and stir of a great company, he would place his hand in the hand of the girl he loved, and the old village priest would make them one for ever in this world and the next, and afterwards give them the Body and Blood of Our Lord.

Behind the cottages the great mountains towered up into the sky. One purple peak, still covered at the summit by a white curtain of cloud, was the mountain where Lluellyn Lys, the brother of Mary, lay in sleep.

Thomas could see the mountain from the cottage, and as his eyes traveled up the green and purple sides to the mysterious cap which hid the top, he remembered all that he had heard about it, and looked upward with an added interest and awe.

For this was the mountain upon which Joseph had first met the mysterious recluse of the hills who had changed him from what he had been to what he was. This was the modern Sinai, where the Master had communed with God. Here he had gathered together his disciples, had preached to them with the voice which the Holy Spirit had given him, and blessed them, and led them to the conquest of London, to the Cross.

Yes, it was there, on those seemingly inaccessible heights, that the great drama of Joseph's life had begun, and it was there that the drama of his life – the life of Thomas Ducaine – was to receive its seal and setting.

After the marriage and the simple feast, which was to be held in the village, they were all to climb the heights, and there, up in the clouds, Joseph was to bless them and give them, so it was said, whispered, and understood, a special message.

The bridegroom left the window, knelt down at his bedside, and prayed. This complex, young, modern gentleman – a product of every influence which makes for subtlety and decadence of brain and body – knelt down and said his prayers with the simplicity of a child. Despite his vast wealth, his upbringing as a young prince of modern England, Thomas Ducaine had lived a life far more pure and unspotted than almost any of his contemporaries. It was that fact, so patent in his face and manner, which had first attracted Hampson to him, when the two had met in the Frivolity Theatre – how long ago that seemed now!

So the young man with great possessions said the Lord's Prayer in the fresh morning light, and then prayed most earnestly that he might be worthy of the gift that God had given him – the love of the sweetest, purest, and loveliest lady in the land.

He prayed that God would be pleased to bless their union at the supreme moment which was now so imminent, and for ever afterwards. His whole heart and soul went up to the throne of the Most High in supplication for himself and the girl who was to be his wife. That they might live together in godly and righteous wedlock; that they might spend their lives, and the wealth which had been given them, for the good of others and for the welfare of the world; that at the last they might be gathered up in the company of the elect, might tread the shining pavements of Heaven, and see the face of God – these were the prayers of the young man as, like a knight of old, he kept the vigil before the Sacrament which was to come.

He went down to the little sleeping cove and bathed in the fresh, clear water of the sea. The right arm rose and fell forcefully, conquering an element, as rejoicing in his strength, rejoicing in the glory of the morning, rejoicing in the sense that God was with him, and that His blessing was upon his doings, he swam out into the sea, laughing aloud with holy rapture at what was, what was to come, and what would be.

Then, once more, he re-entered the little cottage, and found the old Welsh woman who was his hostess preparing the simple breakfast meal. She put the griddle cakes, fresh eggs and milk before him, but he stood, looking down upon the board, and, turning to her, refused to eat.

"No," he said, "I will go fasting to my wedding. I will eat no earthly food until I take the Body and Blood of Jesus from the priest's hand. It will be afterwards that the feast comes."

"Oh, my dear," she answered, in her broken English – "my dear, that's right of ye, though indeed and indeed I should wish you would take something. But you are right – my dear, go to your love fasting, and you will never fast more."

Another door, opening into the little raftered kitchen, was pushed aside, and Hampson entered.

His face was white and pinched. All night long the little man had been wrestling with the last remnants of the old Adam which remained within him. From the moment when the gracious lady who was about to become the bride of his dear friend had saved him from death, the journalist had loved Mary with a dog-like fidelity and adoration. He knew, as he had known at that moment when he had been with her upon the roof of England's great cathedral, and seen the white cross hanging over London, that she could never, under any possible circumstances, have been his.

He had known this and realized it always, but upon this last night of her maidenhood, when she was about to finally and irrevocably join her life to another's, there had been mad hours of revolt, of natural, human revolt, in his brain.

Now it was all over. He had passed through the Valley of the Shadow, and the morning was come.

For Mr. Hampson also the morning of all mornings was come, the morning when he had finally and utterly laid down his own desires at the foot of the Cross, had bowed to the will of the Almighty, and found himself filled with sacred joy in the joy of the two people he loved better than any one else in the world, save only his dear Master, Joseph.

In his hand the little man held a book bound in crimson leather. It was the Revised Version of the New Testament, the latest product of the University Press, and a very beautiful specimen of typography and binding.

He came up to his friend and shook him warmly by the hand. Then he gave him the book.

"Thomas," he said, "there is nothing that I can give you that you have not got. And, of course, it would be silly of me to give you anything of material value, because all those things you have had from your youth up. But here is my little offering. It is only the New Testament. I have written something upon the fly-leaf, and if you will use it constantly instead of any other copy that you may have, it will be a great joy to me. Indeed, my dear fellow," he continued with a smile, "I can give you nothing more valuable than this."

There was a moment of tense emotion, which was broken, and fortunately broken, by the voice of the old Welsh woman.

"Now then, my dear," she said, "you are not going to be married this morning, so you will take your breakfast – indeed, you must an' all. The bells will be ringing soon, but not for you, and so you must keep your body warm with food."

Hampson sat down to the simple meal.

Thomas Ducaine, carrying the crimson volume in his hand, went out into the sunlight, which was now becoming brilliant and strong. He walked down the silent village street, his feet stirring up the white dust as he went, for it had been long since rain had fallen in the Welsh village, and strolled to the end of the mole which stretched out into the blue sea. Standing there, he breathed in the marvellous invigorating air of the morning, and his whole young, fresh body responded to the appeal which nature made.

This was the morning of mornings!

In a few short hours – how short, how blissfully short! – Mary would come to him… There were no words in which to clothe his thoughts or in which to voice his thankfulness and joy. He surveyed his past life rapidly and swiftly. It passed before him in a panoramic vista, full of color, but blurred and unimportant until the wonderful night when, as he stood at the door of his house in Piccadilly with Hampson, the tall figure of the Teacher had suddenly appeared out of the night, and had entered into his house with blessing and salvation.

From that time onwards, the vista of happenings was more detailed, more definitely clear. He realized that he owed, not only his present material felicity – the fact that all his hopes and desires were to be consummated in the little village church before the sun had reached his midday height – but also all the new spiritual awakening, the certainty of another life, the hope of eternal blessedness, to one cause, to one personality.

It was at this moment to Joseph that his thoughts went, to that strange force and power – more force and power, indeed, than that of mere human man – which, or who, had changed his life from a dull and hopeless routine – how he realized that now! – to this beatitude of morning light, of love to the world, and thankfulness to God.

Joseph was somewhere in the neighborhood, that he knew. Where exactly the Teacher was he could not say. Mary was staying at the little cottage which he could see as he sent his eyes roving round the semicircle of white houses which fringed the bay, with her aunt, Lady Susan Wells. Hampson was to be "best man." Bridesmaids there were none. It was to be the simplest of all ceremonies.

This prince of modern London was to be married to one of the greatest heiresses in England, and a member of one of the oldest families in the United Kingdom, as Colin might marry Audrey – happily, quietly, and far from the view of the world.

Whether Joseph himself would be present at the ceremony even Ducaine himself was not quite certain. That after the wedding-feast – the simple wedding-feast – they were all to meet Joseph upon the mountain-top, he was well aware. It had been arranged, and he thrilled with anticipation of some further and more wonderful revelation of the designs of the Almighty than had ever been vouchsafed to him before. But at the church – he hoped the Teacher would be present in the little village church when he and Mary were made one.

He turned to walk back to the cottage, when down the granite pier he saw that a little flaxen-haired girl was walking. In all the sleeping semicircle of the village Thomas and the little girl seemed alone to be awake.